The Stocking Was Hung(7)

“That’s not my mother,” I clarify with a roll of my eyes.

“Bobbie, for the love of Gouda, let go of the poor man’s penis. How many times do I have to tell you that’s not the way we greet our guests?” my mother scolds her sibling with a roll of her eyes as she hurries down the hallway with my father right on her heels. “Look, Reggie made you a fresh martini.”

Aunt Bobbie immediately drops her hand from Sam’s crotch and whirls around, the remainder of her martini sloshing all over the front of his jeans as she shuffles away to grab the fresh drink my father holds out to her from behind my mother.

“Seriously? Again?” Sam growls as Aunt Bobbie stumbles toward my father in her four-inch green stilettos that perfectly match her floor-length green velvet gown.

“Sorry, Aunt Bobbie is a little handsy,” I whisper as he drops our luggage and swipes at the wetness on his pants.

“Gee, you think?” Sam mutters. “She’s got the grip of a sumo wrestler. If she broke my dick, we’re going to have a big problem.”

Thankfully, my mother rushes toward us and pulls my mind out of the gutter where it’s busy thinking about Sam’s huge package and how Christmas really would be ruined if it were broken.

Heartbroken, jobless, homeless…get your shit together, Noel.

My mother yanks me into a quick hug, and before I can even get my arms around her, she’s shoving me aside to get a better look at Sam.

“Mom, this is my boyfriend, Logan,” I exclaim her with a bright smile, feeling a massive amount of guilt, not because I’m lying to my mother, surprisingly, but because I’m making Sam pretend to be someone else.

Why should I even care? I just met this guy and I’m offering him a chance to have a nice Christmas instead of a boring, lonely one surrounded by Amish peeking in his windows looking for porn. I have nothing to feel guilty about, right?

Sam dutifully holds out his hand for my mother to take, but she immediately smacks it away and pulls him into a tight hug. And doesn’t let go.

“Okay Mom, that’s enough,” I inform her when the embrace lasts entirely too long and Sam shoots me a look of panic.

She finally releases him and takes a step back, looking up and down his body before zoning in on the wet stain on his crotch. “Merry Christmas, Logan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Sam says with a tight smile, not answering her Christmas greeting.

“Oh my, did you have another accident? It’s a good thing I made that urologist appointment,” she announces with a tsk and a shake of her head. “You look different than how Noel described you. I thought you had blonde hair.” Her eyes cut over to me. “Noel, didn’t you say he had blonde hair that’s a little longer on top?”

Pushing up on her toes, she stares more intently at Sam’s short, dark hair. “I distinctly remember you telling me he kept using your hair gel and it was getting on your nerves.”

“Dumb shit,” Sam coughs out, covering his mouth with his fist before smiling innocently at my mother. “I wanted to change things up for the holidays so I dyed my hair.”

My mother nods, but I can see she’s still not convinced and now I really am panicking. This was a dumb idea. Why the hell didn’t I just tell her the truth on the phone? I’m thirty-four-years old and so afraid of my mother that I’ve brought a stranger home to be my boyfriend. She’ll never believe it. Talk about pathetic.

“I hear a hint of southern in your voice,” Mom probes Sam with a raise of one eyebrow. “Noel, I thought you said he was from Seattle? Why does he sound Southern?”

Shit, shit, shit! I didn’t even think about the slight twang in his voice, probably from living in southern Ohio. I’ve been too mesmerized by how damn hot he sounds when he speaks.

Sam lets out another cough, remembering my helpful tip to cough if he gets stuck and my brain quickly scrambles to come up with a plausible reason for his slight Southern accent.

“Uh, Logan is in a local production of Oklahoma back in Seattle,” I lie lamely. “He’s just trying to stay in character. Go ahead, honey. Say something else Southern!”

Sam sighs softly and looks at me like he’s about two seconds away from walking back out the front door and running down the street. I hold my breath and keep the fake smile plastered on my face, hoping to God he doesn’t leave. At this point, I’m not even sure if it’s because I’m not ready to face the truth with my family or because I just really want to spend more time with him. God, I need therapy.

“Yee-haw,” Sam replies in a monotone, non-Southern voice.

The fact that he played along, albeit with an annoyed look on his face, makes me want to jump into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss the hell out of him. Not good thoughts to have when we’re standing here in front of my family who are all looking at us like we’re insane. And I’m heartbroken, jobless, and homeless. What is it about this guy that makes me forget all my problems and replace them with sexual thoughts? I have sex brain and I might need an intervention.

“Did you see his package, Bev? Leon should unwrap it for us!” Aunt Bobbie slurs from behind my mother, lifting her martini glass in the air.

Oh yeah, his package. That’s what keeps turning me into sex-starved moron.

“You’ll have to excuse my brister, Logan. She likes her vodka,” my mother informs Sam.